


Someplace You Know

by coffeeblack75



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: Angst, Chakotay is the patron saint of oral sex, Episode Add-On: s07e25 Endgame (Star Trek: Voyager), Episode Fix-It: s07e25 Endgame (Star Trek: Voyager), Eventual Smut, F/M, First Time, Hopeful Ending, JC Tropefest, Older Woman/Younger Man, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Ridiculously Unrealistic Mind-Blowing First Time Sex, Tropes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:27:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23225533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coffeeblack75/pseuds/coffeeblack75
Summary: The Admiral and Chakotay meet during the events of Endgame ... A 'first time' fic written for the J/C Tropes Fest.
Relationships: Chakotay/Admiral Janeway, Chakotay/Kathryn Janeway, Chakotay/Seven of Nine (implied)
Comments: 110
Kudos: 111
Collections: Janeway/Chakotay Trope fics





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic owes EVERYTHING to the incredibly talented BlackVelvet and Caladenia. Thank you so much for all the help you have given me with IT, and my writing and confidence in general – I appreciate it so much! <3
> 
> A huge thank you to gijane7702 as well – you are the reason this fic exists! ;)
> 
> I haven’t yet seen Endgame (I’m late to the party) but I know the basic plot points and that Chakotay died in the Admiral’s timeline not long after they reached the Alpha Quadrant. The only deviation from the episode in my story (that I’m aware of) is that I’ve assumed Admiral Janeway remains on board Voyager in the prime timeline for several days while they are plotting things. Everything else should fit, but if it doesn’t ... just go with it! :)
> 
> Accompanying playlist of songs I listened to on repeat while writing this story is here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLL70YREauQcWbnDYivJF3VRNlUkaSsTSe.

_imagine being someplace you know  
_ _so well but are lost and don’t have any idea  
_ _how to get out  
_ ______________

_the rule is, put your right hand out  
_ _lay it on the wall, and follow  
_ ______________

_sometimes the rules don’t apply to all of us  
_ _I don’t want to sleep here again tonight_

— From “Labyrinth”, Kenyatta Rogers

Ever since she came on board, the stars haven’t looked right.

And he can’t sit still, can’t quiet his mind.

He needs to meditate. Or a few rounds in the ring.

Behind the command station, he hears the Captain talking to the Admiral in low tones, and he shifts in his chair, checking the command console for the hundredth time. But the duty rosters are done, and the operations reports signed off. And space is dead quiet. Just filled with those stars, clear and brilliant against the expansive black, challenging him.

His eyes flick down to the console again and he pulls up the holodeck schedules. Amazingly, there’s still a slot in Holodeck Two available not long after the end of his duty shift. He huffs his relief, and claims the slot before anyone else can.

“Commander?”

Tom Paris has rotated in his chair at the helm and is looking at him expectantly.

“Yes, Lieutenant?”

“I thought you said something.”

“No. As you were,” Chakotay replies gruffly.

“Aye, sir.” Paris ponders him for a moment before turning back to his station, wonders not quite idly what bee has climbed into his commander’s bonnet over the last few days. A rasp of Janeway’s – make that, Janeways’ – laughter rings out suddenly as they stride towards the ready room, and his thoughts click into well-known positions: _not one bee this time; two_. So focused on the thought of _Voyager_ ’s return to Earth and all his mixed feelings about that, he’d missed the obvious. He risks a quick glance back over his shoulder. The Commander is reaching for his earlobe distractedly, his eyes trailing after the women. Tom curtails a snort, immediately berating himself; there is nothing funny about that situation right there.

*

The corridors are quiet, and Chakotay is pleased not to run into anyone on the way down to the holodeck from his quarters. He’d rather not have to interact with anyone if he doesn’t have to – he saw Paris give him the side eye earlier and knows already things are seeping out of him that undermine his role. It’s been like this for days and tonight the pressure is finally too much.

He reaches the turbolift and gives it terse instruction, feels it whizz up into action. In the short ride that is not short enough, he thinks about giving in to his brain, of letting the thoughts out to begin to dash around the point like ... like _so many doomed fireflies in a jar_.

 _Fireflies_. He rubs at his temples with a hand, fingers and thumb pressing into the tension.

One evening a year or so ago, Kathryn had told him about chasing the insects in the dark when she was very young, before her sister had been born. She’d spoken about capturing and imprisoning them in a preserving jar, then finding them dead the next day, starved of oxygen in the miniature version of space she had created. She so rarely spoke about her past. Her smile had been youthful, and he’d been swept up in her wistful, yearning delight and that brief glimpse of her residing in the moment.

It was only later that he found her story had lodged in him morbidly and his mind fixated on all the wrong parts of it.

The turbolift halts and he exits, striding the last few metres to the holodeck with barely restrained urgency.

At the interface, he asks the computer to load his programme and in two steps he’s immersed in the old, Earth-style boxing club. The air is immediately close and warm. A thick holographic cloud of cigarette smoke hangs above him, and the facsimile scents of perspiration, sour coffee, along with that peculiar earthy smell of blood, are near enough to what he remembers, a welcome assault. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath, savouring it all, and wills the pulse bounding in his ears to subside.

Climbing up into the ring, he lifts his gloves from around his neck, undoing the knot in the old-school laces, yanking them on over his wraps and using his teeth to roughly draw the ties taut. He calls for a sparring partner and referee, getting the latter to secure him properly into the gloves. “Tighter,” he commands as the ref pulls at them.

*

Afterwards, returning to his quarters, muscles overworked and heavy, showering, preparing for bed, exhausted but not enough, he wrestles for sleep that will not come.

Very late, he finds himself walking once more the corridors of the ship. He’s in his uniform this time, and he’s not sure why. Habit probably. Certainty definitely.

The ship’s apparent emptiness and low, white hum grate at him. There is no escape. Wherever he goes.

_Wherever he goes._

His nerves jangle.

He could, perhaps should, visit Seven. But as he tests the idea there is that unpleasant flutter of constriction in his chest that he’s felt whenever Seven crosses his mind lately – ever since the Admiral’s arrival – or perhaps before that, he concedes – and he discards the thought with an irritable grunt.

Spirits, he _is_ tired. Tired of not thinking about things he should be thinking about. He pushes a hand through his hair. Realises he has passed through this spot on Deck 5 before. Not for the first time, he wishes his circling would get him somewhere. Bulkheads and thoughts and the dark press him from all angles, their heavy presence insinuating things he’s not willing to hear.

So many places in his mind that are off limits. So many, for such a long time, that he’s lost track of where everything is in there, which parts aren’t safe, where the danger and despair lurk. If he’s less than honest, he’s felt this way for perhaps the last couple of years; if he’s more truthful, probably the best part of all seven years.

_Maybe the worst part._

His jaw grinds.

In those latter years, he’d managed to let all those questions he’d had early on dissipate like vapour. He’d begun by just mentally stepping away, letting his attention drift. So damned easy. And the more often he’d let his focus lose its grip on her, on what she meant to him, the easier it had become. Simpler to put the head down and work within the professional structure of their command. Calmer to let feelings subside, and the mind turn away from half-closed doors.

When he’d allowed himself to think about the situation, he taught himself that this distance was what she’d always wanted between them; he’d promised to support her, and so he was.

And there had been time. Plenty of time.

But then her future self had arrived.

The mere fact of her was an exclamation mark: Kathryn tenfold. Reckless, hell bent on some course to _set things right_ – the nerve this touched in him had crackled. And then there was that familiar, almost crushing ache he’d felt when she’d flirted with him so broadly on the bridge. He knew the feeling well of course, but after such a long time, the rush had caught him off guard, forcing him to remember his Kathryn, her fire and light, and the things he’d once permitted himself to think about her. _Feel_ about her.

This person he is now. Someone he wishes he didn’t know. Wired, resistant, passive.

This person who does nothing, feels nothing. Just ... hovers there in that jar, sleepless; wings numb from beating, beating; fire dimming, as the air gets smaller and smaller.

He gasps, dragging breath into his lungs, and abruptly his strides lengthen, his body answering a subconscious decision.

The Admiral has reminded him of who he was. Who he is.

_And she knows something that he cannot bear not knowing any longer._

He tightens every inch of himself for a moment, fists balled, spine rigid, sinews protesting, holding the rope of it as he walks, feeling his body rankle and smoulder with all he has borne so long. Then he releases, and it is like the sweep and aftermath of a storm, a sliding back into his own skin.

 _No matter her answer_ , he thinks, as he closes the distance between himself and her quarters, _no matter what_ , he is grateful to her for this wake-up call.

*


	2. Chapter 2

The Admiral grants him entry without a sound, and he waits for his eyes to adjust to the dark of the starlit rooms before seeking her out. He finds her silhouetted in profile against the viewport, half-full glass in hand, staring out at the emptiness and he stops breathing. Like this, she is his Kathryn, shoulder blades pressed together, chin raised to those stars in defiance. Her own archetype. He wants to remember her like this forever.

In her presence and with his purpose he feels lighter and more sure than he has in years.

He clears his throat.

“Chakotay,” she says without turning, in his Kathryn’s voice, softer than he has heard the Admiral speak before, his name falling from her lips like a verse known by life.

He moves across the room to her and in the half-light she turns to face him, her mouth upturning in that rare, wide smile, that radiance. Other than when she had dazzled it on him on the bridge, he hadn’t seen it for a long time; he’s forgotten what it’s like to be under that sun.

There is no surprise in her eyes at his visit; any surprise is clearly his to feel, for he is certain now that she’s been expecting him, and it makes his tired heart surge with stretching hope.

She does not let him linger in his study, returning her attention to the stars almost immediately, one arm braced across her chest, the hand of it fixed tight to the inside of her elbow, gripping with knuckles white.

“Help yourself to a drink,” she says to fill the air, not looking at him, her voice dissembling. She gestures with her glass to somewhere across the room and he doesn’t follow her movement.

“I’m fine,” he responds, the words dry and loose in his mouth, unimportant. He reaches out with a shaky hand and gently raises her head so he can look into her eyes.

He is not being audacious. She knows why he is here; he sees it written on her face.

She gazes back into him, in that remembered way that is all pain and pining but comforting because they both know this place, these feelings, what they meant then and clearly still mean now. Standing here, still nearly as death, she discerns the energy between them as a living thing. Then it was, as now it remains, nothing as mundane as physical attraction or as simple as love. She used to believe she could sense him even if he was on the other side of the ship, separated from her by metres, bulkheads. A constant, flexing burden – one he could never take from her – hunting her everywhere, inescapable.

She never wanted to be free of it then.

But now, this weight is far more than the echo she needs it to be, and she is aware that the hurt ripping from her is bared, laid out in front of him.

She never told her Chakotay what she felt about him. And here, so distant from the only home she ever knew and yet so tantalisingly close to it, she wants so much to tell him, but after everything, wanting this more than anything, in this time, she cannot let him, anyone, in.

_So much already lost. So much left yet to lose._

When she first saw him again in this timeline, she had expected the frisson, had been unable to not leap at it, but she had forgotten its strength, and she’d had to call on long-unused parts of herself to keep it tightly controlled. She had been only partly successful. But he’d been as unnerved by her as she’d been by him, and she’d used that to her advantage, pushing Kathryn down and setting the Admiral to the effort.

She’d forgotten what maddening, energy-sapping work all of that was. She is amazed at how successful she had been back in this time at convincing herself that this was just another mindless routine. Such a thankless task, but how foolishly proud of herself she’d been at shutting him out. Believing she took strength from pushing him away.

 _Oh, and I’m so very out of practice,_ she thinks as his palm moves lightly beneath her chin, his thumb drawing against the bone of her jaw, and she flails, finally, at the look he is giving her, her heart clamouring to betray her reason once again, as it almost did on the bridge.

She knows she must try to engage those creaking old cogs of muscle memory, to pull back, to run from him as she has always done. But she can’t; they won’t; and she cannot hide from him.

He watches that same old battle of fight or flight rage and spark through her. Instead of quickly hiding it, as she always does, secreting herself behind veils of command and protocol, he sees it all work through her, her eyes latching on to his with a desperation. Whether she is being brave or is simply unable to hold back, he is uncertain.

“Kathryn,” he murmurs, “I won’t let you go.”

She makes a soft, choked noise at his concern, at the sound of her name in his mouth, her lids fluttering shut, and his chest flames with that same old wild need to hold her, save her from her free fall.

He moves his hand slightly and she rests the weight of her head down into his palm because ... because it belongs there.

His other hand moves to take her glass, setting it on the top of the sofa before pressing his fingers lightly to the top of the arm she still has imprisoned against her chest.

His Kathryn, always. Of this he is sure. The certainty rustles through him like a breeze, surprising him with its quiet, complete profundity: there is no universe, no dimension, no timeline, in which she is not his, he not hers.

How could he ever have doubted it?

“It was always you,” she says with a sigh, the truth pushing past her barriers, lilting her cheek against his hand.

“It will always be you,” he completes, his voice breaking, recognising her vulnerability and answering it with his own.

She lifts her head and looks at him once more, her gaze sombre but unguarded. “I thought that ...” She hesitates, swallowing, muscles of her jaw stiffening under his touch. “... if I could leave you behind, that that would be the hardest thing I would ever have to do, and if I could do that, then I could do anything.” Her voice has petered out to almost nothing and he finds himself leaning in to her. “But ... I never could.”

He shakes his head. “Oh Kathryn ...”

One hand drifts to her waist, his other reaching to brush invisible hair from her face just to keep touching her.

He lets his fingers pass around the wrist of the arm between them, grazing her breast as he does so, feeling even through the thick fabric a tightening and the quiet gust of her gasp at the near contact, notes the almost imperceptible sway of her body towards him that she can no longer control. He feels her let him lift her arm gently away from her body, let him slip one arm further around her waist. Draw her to him as if he has done it a thousand times, bring his lips to hers for the first and the millionth time. Once there, he has a split second of awareness to wonder if the all-too-obvious desire in him is too much, will scare her away again, before she answers with her breath and soul and time becomes theirs, senses and bodies overwhelmed.

 _The way she tastes ..._ His scattered reason tries to grasp the intangible. _Must be what clarity and light taste like_ ... _a ghost of honey, the merest trace of coffee behind that of her more recent red wine._ _It is like coming home ..._

Those lips she has savoured in her dreams for so long, had lost for so long and now here and real once more, beneath hers. The tip of her tongue hesitantly grazes the fullness of his lower lip, delving inside his mouth to seek his own, and she feels his groan move through him. _Like the sea ... something like rain ... he tastes like ... and trees, cinnamon or something near it_ , she thinks, _like coming home_ ...

Her hand finds its way to its place on his chest and he discerns the shadow of her grief in her touch, not understanding all of it but aching for her, for whatever she carries, always. He draws back a little with difficulty, thought returning to him, conscious of needing to check she is all right, hands sliding to hold her elbows. “Is this ... Are you okay?”

“Yes,” she assures, breath catching, eyes full, her smile once more filling his every sense, the confidence of her reply belied just a little by a quaver in her voice. But she sees the concern on his face and reaches for him once more to pull his wonderful lips to hers, avoiding the uncertainty, one hand curving around the back of his head, fingers skimming a line down his nape, delighting in the reality of him in more ways than he will ever know, her other hand returning to his chest.

And then he finds he must learn properly of her neck, soft and brilliant in the starlight. The warm dampness of his breath there, passing from her ear and down the cord of her neck muscle, along the line of the subtle V-neck of her jacket, the sharp edge of the seam and his softness against her skin a deeply contrasting pleasure. He stalls at the hollow at the base of her neck, just tantalisingly bared to him. This place just hidden beneath her turtleneck for all these years, he claimed from her the day they met and has desired every moment since. His finger traces its edge before his tongue dips in, and she utters a sound so fluid and low that he finds himself barely able to support her as she lists in response.

He is flooded with the need to close every possible space between them, and it is more urgent and necessary than anything he has ever felt. He drags himself from her, seeking her heart, her eyes. Seeing the desire in his own reflected there, her lips swollen, parted, longing colouring her cheeks pink, his inchoate mind takes over. He tucks his mouth back into her neck, beneath her ear, nips and rubs her skin with his lips as if to anchor himself to her.

“Bed ...” he growls softly, and although he should be, he is not surprised at the word that has rolled out of him; at the rawness in his voice; at his sudden inability to form a linear, comprehensible thought beyond this desire to be one with her. She tenses at his voice, even as he feels her light at the low vibration against her skin.

And then, he knows it was the wrong thing to say, wrong thing to think. But he can’t take it back.

He hears her sharply inhale, as if coming to from a daze.

The palm still on his chest pushes him away and he cannot stop from making a sound of loss and pain as air sucks in to fill the space between them. But the fingers of one hand reach for and interlink securely with his, as if extending through all the years to stay with him, even as she fights to pull away, and they are two arm lengths apart, the darkness suddenly deeper than before.

“We can’t.” She is shaking her head, her eyes wide, and his heart constricts.

*


	3. Chapter 3

The two arm lengths between them that she has put there are both endless and traversable in this moment of stillness – a perfect summary of their whole relationship.

She squeezes her eyes shut for a moment, her brow tensing. What is she doing? She can’t let herself slip into feeling a part of this timeline. If she is to succeed in her mission, this place, all the people in it, have to remain external, separate from her. Just a memory revisited.

She had known he would come to her, after seeing that haunted look on his face on the bridge. And for this blissful instant, she let herself forget she was here for others, not herself. Just for once she had wanted to feel ... _just once ..._

“We can’t ...” she says again, falters, avoiding his gaze but she is clinging to his hand as if to a life raft.

And he is looking at her like he did in those first years out here, with that simple acceptance and love. And that unnerving patience of his.

Just saving him, all of them, _has_ to be enough, the still reasoning part of her brain cries, even as the warm reality of his fingers in hers and the new memory of his kiss – _the kiss to end all kisses_ – make it clear it is not.

In all those years apart, he had never, not for one quiet day, left her thoughts. Always at the back of her mind knowing that she had been both lost and found the day they met. Now this new punishment – not only that she is just a visitor here but the illusion that she is the one he wants – this embittered, lonely old woman, barely reminiscent of the dark Kathryn he already knows. She almost laughs at the hell of it.

“I’m not ... her. I’m not even the person I was ...” she founders, her throat clenching, mind dizzying.

“You are my Kathryn.” It’s not a question, not a conviction.

But she can’t give in. She can’t risk it. Can she?

“I’m ... old, Chakotay.” Her voice is small, full of regret and uncertainty. _And that is the very, very least of it_.

“I don’t know what your life has been,” he says. “But I know you. I can see it’s been hard. I know you have a mission. But you can let yourself have this—” his voice catches “—happiness. It won’t change anything.”

An almost sob, almost choke takes her at his words, and she bites her bottom lip. Of course it will. It will change nothing and everything, all at once.

He tugs her towards him before he realises what he is doing, leaning in to kiss her again, his free hand reaching behind her head, fingers glorying in the texture of her hair, and gently bringing her mouth to his, taking that lip she has injured in his teeth, giving it the lightest, sweetest bite himself before passing the tip of his tongue over the small pain, noting her shudder. Then he forces himself to release her and take a step back, but does not let her hand go; couldn’t if he wanted to – her nails are digging into him.

He sees the decision when she makes it. She seems to stand a little straighter, raises her chin, undoes the step between them, and he can’t help but be transported back to the day he first stood before her on her bridge.

He brings his fingers to dust her cheek.

She nods once, clearly startled at herself, but he is sure she means it, even if she is not quite sure yet why, and so he turns, leading her across the breadth of the living area to the bedroom.

Gently bidding her to sit on the bed, he crouches at her feet. He takes a deep breath, deciding to tackle the one worry she did voice. “There is nothing about you ... that I don’t cherish, that I don’t want.” He pauses, thinks of the seven years of being together but apart and the years for her of which he knows nothing. “I want all of you. All of who you are, Kathryn. I always have.”

He hears her sharp intake of breath and feels a hand in his hair, the sensation sending scythes of desire through him, her fingertips moving and pressing into his scalp. He raises his eyes to hers and lets her see in the dimness the blaze she has put there, the strength she has given him, before quietly removing her boots and socks, taking each small foot as it is released into his hands and massaging gently, coursing his large thumbs over her instep and across the ball of her foot in long, languid strokes, letting his fingers begin to show her his devotion.

He becomes aware that she is not relaxing under his touch.

“Kathryn?”

“Hmmm ...?”

“Computer, lights 25 per cent.”

He stills and looks up at her. A light frown dallies around her mouth, a small crease between her brows.

“Kathryn. I think ... you should take a moment.” He pauses to come up on his knees, take her hands in his, bring her attention to him.

“Chakotay ...?”

He squeezes her hands. “I want to make love to you right now. More than anything. And I know you want that too. But, I don’t think you’re quite here with me. I can see everything is twisting around in you. If you are going to come to me, I want you to be sure about it.” He pauses, reaches up to cup her cheek. “I know you,” he continues, more softly. “You’d rather do than think. I don’t want there to be any regrets.”

He returns her a stern look when she starts to protest, and she retreats. She may be an admiral now, and the years between them long, but some things in this existence are immutable, and Kathryn Janeway’s propensity for rushing into battle having made a hasty decision is perhaps chief among these, his counterbalance to her perhaps a strong second.

“All right. But ...”

He raises an eyebrow.

“Stay with me?”  
  
He reaches forward to plant a kiss on her head, his mouth tipping up into a warm smile. “I’m not going anywhere.” He sits back down on the floor and she comes to sit beside him, leaning into him and resting her head on his shoulder.

He stills to be unobtrusive, just offering her what he always has, his quiet presence, and watches her begin to tackle the task he has suggested. A flicker of panic first, some inner battle too fast and complicated to tease out, and then, as he feels her fingers seek his, that fierce determination and commitment claims her features. She appears so serious, so very _captainly_ in her deliberations that even through his unease a mild chuckle manages to threaten.

*

Kathryn tries to look herself in the eye. An unsettling prospect. She takes a breath. Focus, she urges herself. She is here to give them all a chance. Herself included. And this gift – this moment right here – can be hers, if she can just ... find some _peace_. She reaches for his hand, interlinks her fingers with his, and immediately feels better. Stronger.

She gives a little start.

Could it really be that simple?

Could her weaknesses, her fears, her vulnerabilities, all those burdens, could they have – will they – become strengths instead, if freely shared with him?

She thinks about their time out here. When things were really down to that wire, when the Kazon had their ship, the Viidians their organs, the Borg their throats, all she had to do was seek him out, meet his gaze, and she knew she could go on.

How could it possibly have taken her this long to work out? She closes her eyes, her soul breaking and made whole again in one tumbling, aching shift of reality.

Sitting up, she turns her body to face him. And blushes when she encounters the soft humour apparent on his face. “What?”

“You looked like you were plotting to overthrow the Borg again,” he says gruffly, a little shy, clearly conscious of the small precipice on which they are standing.

“Near enough,” she retorts, punching him lightly on the arm, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

He catches her wrist and takes her hand as it uncurls, giving it a squeeze, and looks somewhat reassured by her firm response back, her palm pressing into his.

She meets his gaze. “Yes, Chakotay,” she says softly, huskily. “I want this moment with you. I want you. I want us.” Reaching up, she draws a thumb achingly slowly across his lower lip and delights at the shiver that runs through him.

*****


	4. Chapter 4

Chakotay’s breath escapes in a rush. “ _Good_ ,” he says simply, and ducks in to capture her mouth in a fierce kiss, holding nothing back, his hand holding her chin as they fall further into each other. Her arms come around him, and she folds herself into his body.

When they come apart, they are both more than half lost already, heavy lidded, burning. She tugs his arm, pulling him up, and he manoeuvres her to sit on the end of the bed once more, settling on his knees again in front of her. Resetting.

She lies back and raises her hips to help him remove her pants, then sits up when he reaches to undo her unfamiliar uniform jacket, her hands on his shoulders.

“Do you know how many times I have imagined this?” he says into her ear as the fingers of one hand skirt the length of the hidden zipper. Finding the pull, he draws it down, then slides his hands inside her open jacket.

“I ... _oh ..._ I can ... guess ...” she stumbles, the words falling between little rushed breaths. “I have ... some experience ... in the imagination department.”

Visions of her imagining him, them together, dance through his mind, a race of heat accompanying his thoughts and his mouth curls in a soft smile. “I always hoped that was the case.”  
  
His flattened palms skim upwards over her undershirt, deliberately applying more weight when proceeding across her breasts, and a whimper escapes her.

She drops her hands from him and leans back a little, her eyes closing, clearly giving herself over to enjoying the sensations he is producing in her.

When his fingers reach her shoulders, he works for a few moments at the knots he knows are there, at the base of her neck, into the muscles above her shoulder blades, down the top of her spine, and she slackens into him with a sigh.

“Still so good at that ...”

He laughs softly. “You remember.”

She gives a little snort. “As if I would forget. As if either of us would.”

“Not a second,” he agrees, prodding at the memory and for the first time finding it friendly. His smile reaches his toes.

He draws her to him as he works to push the jacket from her shoulders, down her arms and off, the contact and proximity sending her in search of his lips again, forcing his to give in, their teeth clashing a little, tender amusement rippling through them both, their desire beginning to burn even as they both struggle to slow the heat, to wait in it and luxuriate.

They both reach for the hem of her undershirt at the same time, and together, fingers tangling, lift it up and off her. Their matched breaths coarse and heavy, he pulls away from her to speak.

“Lie back,” he says softly. “And keep your eyes open. I want you to see me love you.”

He gets up and she rolls on her side to watch him as he undresses, taking in each centimetre of skin as it is revealed to her. She notes how comfortable he is in his body, how much he clearly enjoys her watching him. And when at last his thumbs hook into the waistband of his boxers and this last article of clothing is discarded, her breath is brought up short as she sees the extent of his desire for her.

Her eyes rake up his torso to fasten onto his, finding them glittering in soft delight at her obvious appreciation.

“Come here,” she orders, her voice honey thick.

He lies down on the bed next to her and draws her close, his arms encircling her, and that first touch of skin on skin, the full length of their bodies aligned, is like flame.

He reaches around to undo her bra and she stiffens. He lets go of the clasp to hold her a little more tightly. “Okay?”

“Yes,” but she can’t quite keep the uncertainty from her voice.

“Tell me.”

“I ...” she hesitates, her voice muffled against his heart, and he waits with her. “I ... I’m so much older than you, Chakotay.” She stalls. “It matters what you think about me,” she says finally, and her arms wrap around him more securely.

He pulls away from her, tips her chin so she can’t avoid him. “Why is that?” he presses.

“Because you are so important to me. Because I always wanted ... for you to see me at my best. Because ... I love you.” That this is the first time that she is saying this is not lost on her and she shakes a little from the power of it.

“Kathryn,” he says on a breath. “I know you are older. Your life is there in your imperfections. That is beautiful to me.” A hand ranges softly over her back, up and down. “I love you. Exactly as you are. Always as you are. _I love you, Kathryn Janeway_.”

She bites her lip and makes a gentle noise, turning her head in an approximation of a shrug before facing him again. “The hell with it,” she mutters with a slight roll of her eyes. She wriggles herself back from him on the bed, pushes herself into a sitting position, ensures she has his gaze, and reaches to unhook her bra with one hand, using her other to hold it in place for a moment.

She looks down at him, then tosses the item of clothing away, before lying down next to him on her back, extending her arms above her head, stretching out, and when he realises what she is doing – displaying herself to him – he is humbled by the gesture and aroused beyond measure and his eyes cannot do anything but rove her. A hand soon joins his eyes in exploring the magnificence of her body, showing her how he sees her.

“You are so beautiful, Kathryn, but that doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

His fingertips skim the exquisiteness of the imprinted, silvery stretch marks that run across her stomach, her breasts, her hips, trace the less defined lines of her muscles.

“I’m going show you just how lovely you are ... Look at yourself as I touch you.”

His fingers dip into her curves and hollows, trace the wrinkles, creases and lines that she worries about, and her eyes follow his slow manoeuvres, her lips parting, her breath coming in ever-shorter increments.

“I’m going show you just how much I want you, how much I’ve wanted you ... since the day we met ...”

She is moving now under his hand, struggling to keep her eyes open as the pleasure builds in her. His touch adores her, soothing over softer places, noting the satiny shift of her looser skin covering bone, and falls, eventually, to the white lace that is the only thing she now wears, hand curving over her mound, his fingers stroking at her quivering damp heat through the fabric.

“I will make you feel it so you can’t deny it.”

A finger pushes against her, just deep enough to part her lips and they both moan, her hips angling to press into his hand before he takes it away to move his body over hers, his desire hard and insistent against her. Her arms come to encircle his neck and once more she draws him down to kiss, letting her hands rove his back, enjoying the novelty of his muscles flexing under her fingertips. Experimentally, she runs her nails across him, and is rewarded with a low rumbling in his chest and his head rearing away from her as he groans his pleasure.

He pushes up off her, leans on one arm and drops his mouth to a breast, his free hand coming underneath to lift it up to meet his adoring tongue, which slowly runs circles around her darkening areola, the skin puckering at his care. He watches her eyes cloud, a sound of desire escaping her, and keeps his gaze on her, letting her watch his tongue swirl over her with slow, maddening strokes and flicks, dipping in every now and again with alternately pliant then hard open-mouthed kisses to suckle her, take her nipple between his teeth and bite.

The fire is spreading now, scorching through her in deep, sweeping pulses radiating out from his mouth, every small alteration he makes to the detail of his caress flaming a path straight to her centre.

If he keeps this up ... she thinks she might come just from this – from what he is doing, from watching him do it, from watching him watching her – it is unbelievable, glorious, something she never even imagined could be possible.

When he reaches across her, lowering his head to honour her other breast just as diligently, she shifts under him, her whole body unfurling for him like she is a desert plant burning up under the sun and he the rain.

“Chakotay ... ah ...” Her hands are in his hair, the sensation of his head moving underneath her hands as he licks and bites and cajoles her breast almost unbearable. “If ... you ... don’t stop ...” she gasps.

“And that would be bad ...?” he queries with a grin before descending to her once more.

But she doesn’t answer, she cannot, because the touch of his mouth is suddenly, unbelievably, completely unbearable, and she is wailing his name, with nothing beneath her but wide swathes of white heat, a swirling tide of light all the way from his mouth to her clit that just rolls and rolls and goes on and on and feels like nothing she has ever felt before.

When the waves pull back, leaving her wrecked on the shore, and she can direct her brain to open her eyes, she finds him grinning and humming with incredulous, unbound joy, completely awestruck.

“ _Oh ..._ ” she manages.

“Oh?”

She lets out a puff of breath. “Oh, you are _good_ at that,” she elaborates, her fulfilment evident in her slight drawl, in the difficulty she seems to be having locating words.

“Just good?”

“ _Very_ good,” she tries, mind still whirling.

He chuckles and slides up to kiss her, and she finds herself thrilling at the friction of his body along hers, her desire rising once more, as if she wasn’t still recovering from the strongest, most intense orgasm of her life _... without even a touch to her centre_. If he can do that, just what else might he be capable of? She pushes her hips up into his and he moans into her mouth, losing focus, his lips leaving hers and his head tipping back. It is the most beautiful thing she has ever witnessed, the look of fire and surrender on his face, and she has to see it again.

Her hands trail his hot skin to his waist and lower, reaching between them, and he pushes up and off her to allow her access, even though his look warns her that this is unwise, that he’s already too far gone for this to be a sensible course of action.

He hisses as her fingers find and curl around him, his face clouding with want.

She strokes him.

_Once._

Plays her thumb across his tip, catching the tear of moisture there. His eyes roll back into his head.

“ _Kathryn ..._ ” he groans. “Wait ...”

_Twice._

“ _Ohhhhh ..._ ” a shudder rocks him, “I won’t be able to ... If you don’t stop ...”

“And that would be bad ...?”

He lets loose a laugh, a heft of breath, and looks down at her as her hand stills for a moment, still enthrallingly clasping him. “ _Yes._ My recovery time ... isn’t what it used to be.”

Her eyes glint wickedly. “Something tells me that’s not going to be a problem.”

Before he has time to realise what she is doing, she pushes his shoulder, unbalancing him as she intends. He rolls off her and onto his back. In a heartbeat she has straddled him, palms flat on his chest, her grey-blue eyes fixed to his.

“Your turn to watch,” she purrs as she leans in, begins trailing her mouth down his body, revelling in the intoxicating taste and scent of him: sweet, deep, so familiar, everything.

She reaches his cock.

As beautiful as the rest of him. Large, well proportioned, and, she entertains, potentially intimidating – to some. She smiles up at him from beneath her eyelids. His face has stilled in anticipation, eyes wide, breathless. She wets her lips, keeps her eyes on him, and lowers her mouth to him.

The flat of her tongue courses his entire length in a single long sweep, root to tip, and his whole body roils. Taking time to mimic his earlier ministrations, she circles the tip and delights in the little jerks of pleasure that each flit of her tongue across that most sensitive of places elicits. Finally, taking note of his muscles tensing all around her, she takes him slowly into her mouth, whirling her tongue around his girth, and begins to slide up and down.

His hands are suddenly holding her head, just shadowing her movements, all tight, strained restraint. She smiles and huffs an exhalation over him, increasing the pace.

In no time at all, his breaths are hard gasps and he is striving not to lunge into the lush warmth of her. He feels his orgasm start to gather in him, coiling, strung. Her hands are at his hips, silently giving him permission to move and he allows himself to thrust into her, as gently as he can given he has barely any reason left at all. There is just her and him and warmth and heat and the fire that is slowly engulfing and burning them up.

“Kathryn,” he says, struggling. “I’m ... I’m not far.”

In response, she redoubles her efforts, hollowing her cheeks and sucking him hard.

She feels him contract, and slides a hand up and behind his balls, pressing in behind them in just the right place at just the right moment and he crashes and comes apart for her, bursting into her mouth and filling her with his life, crying out her name. As he falls back into time, she swallows his sweet-salty seed, slows her movements and gently releases him, wiping at her mouth with a hand as she rises on her arms to more thoroughly take in the vision before her.

Truly the most gorgeous man, and even more so in the aftermath of her loving him, head thrown back, full lips parted, eyes fluttering, great solidly muscled limbs askance, completely vulnerable, completely beguiling.

To say she missed him before this would be an understatement. Now she knows she won’t be able to go on without him.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... and they're not done yet ... ;)


	5. Chapter 5

“Come here,” Chakotay says from beneath his lids, clearly aware of her scrutiny, sensing her melancholy, and she moves up to lie next to him, tucking her head into his neck. His arm curls around her, strokes her hair. “You are ... an extremely talented woman, Kathryn, with an extremely talented mouth.”

His words help her push away thought of time-after, and she rolls herself over so she is lying on her front on him, sinks herself into enjoying the slight stickiness of his heated skin and still energetic, recovering rise and fall of his chest beneath her. His hand begins running circles on her back and she is once again very aware just how aroused she still is.

“You think so?”

“I would have thought that was obvious.”

“Mm-hmm ... but I’m very much enjoying hearing you say it.”

“Extremely talented,” he says, reaching to brush his lips over hers. “Very beautiful.” Another soft kiss. “Intelligent.” His tongue flashes out to tease hers for a moment. “Passionate.” This time he pauses, lets their breath mingle and lips just touch as he speaks, the resonance tracing all her nerves with electrical current. “Unbelievably sexy.”

“Oh yes?”

“Oh yes,” he says, pushing himself up and rolling her onto her back, manoeuvring onto his side, head propped on an elbow. He trails a finger from the base of her throat down between her breasts, across her stomach, edging lower, and she seems to sway under his hand.

And then any reply or attempt to continue the conversation is thoroughly thwarted by the fingers she feels sliding into her panties, tracing her labia, teasing her lips apart, dipping inside, feathering her swollen wet folds. Her focus narrows to his reverent caress, her heart seeming to still, time hushing.

He watches her as he moves his fingers inside her, careful to notice which of his touches and pressures she seems to enjoy best, exploring, but never quite touching her where she wants him most.

 _Absolutely maddening_... and she’s suddenly very keen to be rid of this last piece of clothing, this last barrier between them, and reaches down to push the offending item off. Together, his hands over hers, they slide them down her legs. And they are finally, finally naked.

He eases her legs apart, his breath catching at the sight of her, the bright smell of her arousal that suddenly reaches him. “Make sure you watch,” he instructs softly. “I don’t want you – us – to miss _anything_.” The commander in his tone unbinds her completely, her seams disintegrating before him.

Not missing this one bit, he moves to settle himself comfortably between her legs, dips a finger in her again, swirls it around her clit.

“Okay,” she gasps, her hands finding their way into his hair again and he feels her press with the merest encouragement, asking for his mouth, his worship.

He grins lasciviously at her, then, holding her gaze, acquiesces and brings himself to her, playing his hot tongue tenderly along her lips, teasing, before sliding inside her wetness with one startling, long, direct sweep, from centre to clitoris, mirroring her recent treatment of him. With a cry, her body arches up, and he slips a hand to the small of her back to hold her to him.

 _Her taste ..._ _oh how he has ached to taste her ... and her scent ... never mind the actual feel of her fevered wet flesh against his mouth_. A surge of desire rushes through him again, and as he groans into her at the feelings and thoughts, at her pulses beneath him, he finds himself abruptly at that sharpest edge again and then almost again as she bucks under him responding to his own reaction. Somehow, somehow he manages to resist the call and turn his mind to savouring the sweetness of denial, to focusing on her needs and wants.

He runs his tongue lightly and slowly over and around her entrance, then delves into the exquisiteness fully. Her hands clench, nails biting into his scalp, and her body flexes and courses beneath him. He withdraws, lowering her to the bed and retrieving his hand from her back and she watches, trembling, as he gently draws two fingers through her soaking heat, then slides first one, then another inside her. She whimpers then, when he curls them expertly into the front of her and begins to move, slightly in, slightly out, all the while pressing up at her wall.

He returns his tongue, traversing her with delicate, tantalising flicks and licks, up towards her clitoris. Reaching her most sensitive place, he huffs hot breaths over her, places his free hand over her mound, draws the flushed lips further apart with his fingers, exposing her to him, his dark eyes rising for a moment to seek hers.

Watching him is too much. Fine agony. And when he lowers his head again, the tip of his tongue flashing just once across her bared swollen nub, she feels herself gather and catch, the tremors of tingling pleasure begin to run through her, from the place his tongue seared and down, then as if into her very soul, and out every pore of her skin. It rises through her, its heat and wildness building, and when she sees him reach for her again, it hits her before he even makes contact, juddering, setting every nerve ending she has sparking to violent awareness.

Her body rises to him, her head falling back as her orgasm punishes through her, and he somehow manages to hold her to his mouth as she tosses beneath him, shining delicate strokes across her, careful not to make the touch too much, just enough to stretch and extend her pleasure for as long as he can, and then slowing and lightening the pressure as he sees the chaos in her gradually recede in dusky lost rushes and pulls.

She slowly becomes aware again of where she is; of Chakotay; of his fingers still quietly inside her; of his mouth, hovering millimetres above her; his hot, sweet breath; his lips curling in a smile; eyes flushed with love and want, and yes, self-satisfaction.

She lets out a shaky breath. “Chakotay ...”

“Now ... I think that ... that was frankly a middling attempt on my part,” he says, slipping his fingers out of her and coming up onto his elbows. She sees him trying to contain a smile. “I mean ... I barely touched you.”

Her eyes widen and she lets out a bark of laughter. His grin broadens and he joins her in her happiness and she can’t resist dropping a hand from his head to trace one of those stunning dimples as it appears. He turns his head to capture her fingers in his teeth for a moment, flicking the tip of that incredible tongue at a fingertip, and she lets loose a round vowel sound, the coil of desire tightening in her once more.

“See? Clearly, I have more work to do.” He starts to reach down for her again, but she stops him with a hand either side of his head.

“Chakotay ...” she says, voice low and husky, her meaning clear.

He shifts and brings himself up over her, and she wraps her arms around him, bringing him close, very pleased to find her presumption about his recovery time correct. She rubs herself up at him shamelessly and nips at his lips, drawing him into a kiss, thrilling to the taste of herself she finds lacing with his own. A hand finds her breast and he fondles the still-tender nipple, sending long drives of pleasure to her clit. They shift until he is pressing lightly at her entrance and they pause, hearts roaring, breaths hitching, just holding fast to the moment.

He reaches to push back damp hair from her face, his dark eyes filled with emotion, and she returns the look, holds his gaze.

How impossible their journey to this point. How much further yet to go ...

She tilts her hips and presses towards him, angling so he can ease himself into her, centimetre by aching centimetre. He’s glad they gave each other release before this, because he wants nothing more than to prolong this particular, most sacred, part of their lovemaking for as long as possible.

Fully sheathed in her, he feels her hands glide down his back and clasp his behind, and slowly, slowly they begin to move, finding their rhythm. Her legs wrap around him, and she shifts her pelvis to encourage even deeper thrusts.

Slow. Enrapturing. Heart-breaking. Perfect.

_Home._

They surround each other, the separate and entwined scents of her and him and their mingled sweat, soft noises of the slickness of their joining and pants of breath, whispered words and primal sounds of love.

They both feel it when they cannot hold back any longer, reaching that place at almost the same time. And despite the pleasure she is crying and he cannot save her. The heat is dazzling and whips them up into its hot smoke, and the need overwhelming. They rock together, in the heady claim of the flames. He dips to kiss and lick her tears and she can’t not bloom for him, pressing him closer, impossibly closer.

The roar begins from deep within them, its heat drifts out from their centres to claim their limbs, hearts, minds, dancing and building.

She feels him stiffen and the swift thrum of him inside her and then he comes hotly, hard, arching and calling her name for the second time as he is undone. Not taking a moment, he slips an arm under her hips and lifts her slightly, altering her position to best advantage her sensitive places, and continues to move, gaze into her eyes. But she was there almost before he did this, his climax chasing her to her own, and as he tips her up, she is subsumed by their fire, and cries out and pulls him to her, seeking his mouth as the pulsing of her own orgasm takes her, wanting nothing more than to gift all this feeling back to him.

When she has stopped shaking, he lowers them down and comes to rest lightly on top of her, bracing some of his weight on his hands. Not wanting to separate just yet. But she wraps her arms around him again and pulls him to her so all his body is laid out against hers. The heaviness of him, the slight struggle for air a blessing.

*

There is fitful sleep, waking to test reality, to touch each other again and whisper. To slide into each other again. To sleep the sleep of the drowned.

When last she is truly awake again, he is too. She lies tucked into his side, his arm underneath and around her; the fingers of his free hand tracing nonchalant lines up and down her as if to mark her, create permanence from what is already dissolving. The secret desperation in their casual embrace, in their defiance of time, not secret at all.

Her eyes are distant, visiting a memory he doesn’t share.

“I need to thank you,” she says slowly, returning to this moment for a while. “For everything. I’m sorry I pushed you away these last few years. That was the wrong thing to do. Unfair and cruel. I was ... protecting myself, protecting the captain, from what you kept trying to tell me. I didn’t understand, and I couldn’t risk it not working out.” She strokes his cheek. “You are my strength and I am yours; I’m sorry I didn’t figure it out until now.”

He lifts her hand to his mouth, brushes his lips over the pale blue lines and tendons. “I know. You don’t need to apologise. It is what it is. We’ve done our best out here.” And as he says it, he knows it is not mere comfort; he could never lie to her. His voice lowers. “You have always been my strength, Kathryn. And it doesn’t matter that you didn’t realise I was yours; I was anyway.”

“Will you promise me something?” she asks, her voice suddenly urgent, the words coming in a rush. “Promise me, you’ll not let me, her, push you away any more. Try to show her what you’ve showed me, when she’s ready to listen. We ... we Janeways appreciate guidance more than we like to admit.”

“I know,” he says, soothing her as best he can. “You don’t need to tell me that. I promise.”

They draw into the finality of their moment, conscious of everything, of being uncertain and lost, of being wise and found, and of all the steps and missteps along the way of that human continuum.

“We have so little time,” she says eventually, aware that her mission cannot be ignored any longer. “And it is all we have. Don’t waste a second more.”

He shifts a little so he can slip his fingers under her chin, tip her head to look into her eyes, softly kiss her for the last time, the millionth time.

*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And one more chapter – an epilogue – to follow ...


	6. Epilogue

“It’s not going to be easy for us ... is it?” she says, and the sadness in her voice makes him ache.

“No,” he accedes. “We have a lot of things to deal with. But it’s going to be worth it.” He pauses, gathering his resolve. “First of all, I need to apologise."

“What on earth for?” She shifts her shoulders and turns her head on the pillow to face him.

He reaches up to sweep a hand through her auburn hair – he will never tire of touching her hair ... or any part of her for that matter – then across her naked body to take her opposite hand. “Do you remember telling me about the fireflies?”

She looks at him with curiosity. “Yes. I remember. What about it?”

He nods. “I was never able to get it out of my head. How you chased and chased them. Then trapped them in that jar. How they died.”

“I wanted to capture the stars. Even then,” she says, and he sees her slip into the memory and away from him for a moment, missing his tone. “I think I must have been two or three? Before I knew about oxygen, at any rate.” She laughs softly.

He lets the fingers of his hand twine with those of hers, in the gesture that represents everything to them.

“I have been misinterpreting that story,” he says quietly.

“I’m not sure I understand ...” But then she makes a little noise of realisation at the look on his face, and he sees she is aware they are not talking about insects. “Chakotay, I ... didn’t mean to hurt them.” Her voice has changed, become smaller, more vulnerable, a little miserable.

She half rises, leans on her arm to look down at him, and he is struck by her resplendence in the aftermath of their lovemaking. That wanton look, her dishevelment, her pale skin contrasting against his own flushed burnish make his heart fit to burst. But in her eyes, filled with love, there is also disquiet, shimmers of that fight or flight. This must be overwhelming for her. Doing something to her that she’s not ready to admit to just yet, to surrender to just yet. She is not in the same place the Admiral was. He must be gentle. Patient. Himself.

Their fingers are still linked, resting together on his chest, and he rubs his thumb up and down hers in that way. “I know.”

“Do you? Do you really? Because, I didn’t think I was harming them. I would have set them free, the next day. I just wanted ... to be close to their light. They were ... everything. I couldn’t bear to let them go. I was sorry, I was always sorry.”

“I know,” he says again. “This is not about you saying sorry to me.” He smoothes her hair back from her face with his free hand, tracing her cheek. “I’ve been an idiot these last couple of years. I let you push me away and I just gave in. But, I made myself into that person, Kathryn, not you – I put myself in that jar. We are responsible for our own self-worth and behaviour. I’ve never been freer than when at your side, and you know that.”

Her face softens, but she does not appear wholly convinced. He runs his index finger down her arm and she reaches down to kiss him fleetingly, whisper soft. A strong tug of arousal grips him low down and he is quietly amazed. Even thoroughly spent from their sleepless night of loving one another, all of him still wants her, is desperate for her. Endlessly.

His hand comes back of its own accord to her face. “Kathryn, I love you. Please take my apology, I mean it with everything I have,” he says, his voice rough once more with love and desire, and then something more, something beyond words. “And let’s get on with our lives, working it all out. Together.”

Remembering the Admiral’s reaction to a hint of his authority, he rolls her over, taking her wrists and pinning her to the bed, stifling her quick cry of shock with a kiss. She gasps and moans into his mouth, her body curving up to him. He takes his time laying delightful siege to her mouth with his tongue, letting it explore, combat with her own, before claiming her neck and working his way down to that place that is his. When he finally retreats, they have both lost, both won. Her pupils are dilated, lids heavy, chest heaving with want and he is filled with ridiculous, unwarranted pride at her state, which is basically the same as his own.

“All right,” she says, catching her breath, “I’ll accept your apology. But only if—” Her head slightly askance, her blue-grey eyes narrowing, a slight smirk pulling at a corner of her mouth. “—you take mine too.”

He is careful to hold her gaze, to make sure she hears him. “You did what you had to, Kathryn. You had very little choice because of your position. You’ve held us together. You’ve got us home. You’ve only done what you had to do. And those few times you didn’t ... you did the best you could. You’re only human.”

But she does not yield, and he is not surprised. “So are you, Chakotay. So you will take mine too; I have more to apologise for than you.” He starts to object, as he knows she needs him to, and her chin juts, voice steeling. “And that’s an order, mister. Hopefully my last one to you.”

This tiny naked woman, pinioned underneath him, delivering this command, brooking no dissent even in this compromised situation, is the greatest, strongest person he has ever known. He will follow her for as long as he has breath. In any time. He shakes his head a little, gives her a lopsided smile and releases her wrists, whereupon she stretches to caress one of his dimples, gifting him her own smile back.

“Aye, Captain,” he gives, tipping his head to kiss at her fingers.

“Now that that’s settled—” She wiggles her hips suggestively underneath him, her eyes flashing. “—what was that you were saying about my _position_?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to the wonderful BlackVelvet and Caladenia – your help with this has been _everything_.
> 
> And thank you to everyone who has read this wee fic – I hope you enjoyed it!
> 
> Chakotay's fixation with that place on Kathryn's neck – the suprasternal notch – is humbly borrowed from the great Michael Ondaatje with much reverence.
> 
> https://poets.org/poem/labyrinth


End file.
